


A Zombie For You

by oceanofchaos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Warm Bodies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, First Kiss, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Warm Bodies AU, major characters undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos/pseuds/oceanofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Warm Bodies crossover. Stiles is the rebellious son of the slightly despotic leader of the survivors, D is a zombie who has weird amount of brain function considering he's dead, and the zombie apocalypse is really no place to make any kind of love connection.</p><p>-</p><p>“He’s not my zombie boyfriend. That’s probably necrophilia, anyway.”</p><p>“I think you mean ‘necromancy’,” leers Scott.</p><p>“I wish,” sighs Stiles, “but I’m pretty sure it’s ‘necrophilia’ here.”</p><p>“So you like like him?” smirks Scott.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Zombie For You

**Author's Note:**

> D has a remarkably cheesy inner monologue, but I guess as he's based off of Romeo that isn't so surprising. I highly recommend the movie Warm Bodies in general. 
> 
> Oh, and let me know about typos/briticisms etc!

 

Stiles was sixteen when his mother died, then got back up. When the world _ended_. That was eight years ago.  

 

 

\---

 

Here and now, Stiles is on a routine medicine run beyond the barricades. The expedition is being run by Matt, because he’s part of Dad’s honor guard or something, and Stiles is getting seriously pissed at him. 

“I’m telling you,” says Scott, as he backs away from the medicine cabinet he had been looting, “I definitely heard something. _Definitely_.”

There’s the distinctive sound of groaning coming from the corridor. Stiles drops his loot bag and cocks his shotgun. “I _told_ you we should’ve split,” he snaps at Matt, who gives him a withering glare. 

“We have orders, babe. From your father!” he barks back, and Stiles wonders when Matt started using his soldier voice all the time. Wonders what happened to his boyfriend. 

The doors burst open, and there’s no time for introspection, no time to think about anything  any more. It’s all instincts and bullets and sprays of blood.

 

 

\---

 

He can’t remember what happened, how long he’s been like this. He can’t even remember his name. It begins with a “D”, he’s pretty sure. Higher brain functions like memories are lost to him now that he’s a zombie. Almost everything is. He stumbles around, can’t go faster than 5mph unless there’s food nearby. He can’t talk. Grunts and groans, sure, but actual speech? Out of the question. He can’t sleep, but he can think. Just.

It wasn’t really his choice, being a zombie. Then again, it’s not really something you get given a choice in. He wishes he was alive, sometimes, wishes for humanity. He might be the only one who wishes for that. He might be the only one who can wish. Then again, he has these grunting almost-conversations with a bombshell blonde most days; they’re basically best friends. She probably wants some aspect of Before, of alive as well. It might even be the topic of their grunts, he’s can’t be sure. Certainly, neither of them want to end up like the brunette in the corner. She’s peeling her skin off, transforming into a Boney, and her exposed teeth look like a particularly manic grin. Boneys are vicious, fast, relentless, and not even a little conflicted about eating humans. He may eat humans, but he wishes he didn’t have to, sometimes. 

The point is, being dead is all he has. He’s never liked it, never dared hope for anything else.You don’t really hope, when you’re dead. But here he is, on a routine food run, his blonde friend’s idea, and he sees this guy, and everything just _stops_.

The guy’s hair is fluffed in every direction, he’s buzzing from adrenaline, and his eyes seem to gleam gold in the flashes of gunfire. He’s the most beautiful thing that has ever existed. He must be. And suddenly, there are all these hopes bursting to attention. 

 

 

\---

 

It’s all going to hell. Scott nearly got bitten, and Stiles used the last of his ammo killing the corpse that had Scott pinned. Scott’s hiding now, but Matt’s nowhere to be seen, and Stiles only has a small throwing knife left. He thinks, oh god, he thinks those ankles to his left might belong to Matt. Might have _belonged_ to Matt. They’re not moving. God. That’s yet another one down. 

There’s a corpse coming at him, blood smeared around its mouth, leather jacket and henley riddled with bullet holes. Stiles throws his knife, perfect aim. The corpse stops, but before Stiles can so much as breathe a sigh of relief, it looks down at the knife sticking out its henley, before it lurches towards Stiles again. Shit. That’s it, Stiles is so un-freaking-believably dead, and there will be no one left to temper the extreme martial law of his dad. Well, to attempt to temper it.  

Scott’s hiding under a table, but Stiles doesn’t want to draw attention to him, so he edges in the opposite direction. Maybe he can find a weapon, maybe they’ll both–

The zombie lunges, pins him to the counter behind him. This is it. 

“Stiiiii...” the zombie appears to groan.

“Uh, what?” says Stiles.

“Stiiii–” moans the zombie, taking a deep breathe before continuing, “ulssss.”

“Was that? What? Did you just say my name? What the f–”

“Shhh,” manages the zombie, complete with a finger on his lips, “ _Safe_.”

Stiles has multiple definitions of safe, but none of them include being smeared with zombie juice, which _ewwww_ , and dragged away from Scott into the middle of a crowd of zombies.

 

 

\---

 

There are brains in his pockets, and a beauty is following him. _Stiles_. Stiles is following him. They’re actually holding hands. It’s the best day of his afterlife. He really hopes Stiles doesn’t notice the brains though, because he’s relatively sure they previously belonged to Stiles’ boyfriend. His ex boyfriend, anyway. 

 

 

\---

 

The zombie has Stiles’ hand clamped painfully in his, and he’s using it to drag Stiles along behind him. Stiles hasn’t heard of them hoarding fresh food like this, but this makes sense. Keep him alive for longer, the fresher his brains taste when he does get eaten, right? Anything’s got to be more appetizing than the grey matter falling occasionally out of the zombie’s leather jacket, who he probably used to know, ohmy _god_.

Stiles hasn’t really thought about where they might be headed, but an empty train in an abandoned subway station wouldn’t have made his top ten guesses anyway. It’s decorated with a bizarre variety of stuff, at a brief glance Stiles can see dried flowers, lacrosse equipment, toy animals, and much more; it looks like this zombie hoards more than his food. Which is kind of weird, really. Like, zombies are dead. Personality-free. Everything-free. It ought to be physically impossible for them to have plushie wolf collections. Or the ability to speak.  

“Saaafe… heeere,” groans the zombie. 

Hah, yeah, right. Stiles is still in a room with something that _wants to eat him_. The zombie moves towards him, and Stiles dives into a pair of seats, braces himself against the window for the inevitable chomp.   

It doesn’t come. If anything, the zombie looks sort of… hurt? 

“Saafe,” it insists, “Safe here, Stiiiles.” As if to prove it, the zombie pulls the knife out of his henley, and offer is, handle first, to Stiles. Stiles snatches it away, and considers.  

“How do you know my name?” he asks. There’s a relatively long pause. It’s not that the zombie doesn’t know how to answer, Stiles thinks, he’s just really uncomfortable with the question for whatever reason. “Okay, okay,” Stiles rallies, “What’s _your_ name?”

“Duh. D–D–” The zombie tries, but looks so upset that he can’t finish, that Stiles takes pity on him. 

“‘D’, we can just call you ‘D’ until you remember, or whatever.” 

The zombie - D, that is, it’s name is D - nods once, before staring at Stiles intensely. For _ages_.

 

 

\---

 

Stiles is clearly perfect. He came all the way to D’s home, and knows D won’t hurt him, and _calls him D_. No one’s _ever_ called him ‘D’ before. Not that he can remember. D even managed to steer the conversation away from the way he ate Stiles’ boyfriend’s brains without Stiles noticing. His ex-boyfriend. Late boyfriend, whatever. 

D can’t help gazing longly at Stiles. He hopes he’s not being too obvious, but he really can’t be blamed; he has so many thoughts right now, so many hopes, and almost all of them are to do with the way Stiles says D’s name, and the fact he’s newly single. 

 

 

\--- 

 

Stiles would quite like to sleep, but there’s a zombie trying to explode his head through the sheer force of his death-glare. He’d probably be making puns out of it, if it weren’t so disconcerting. Also, he’s starving. And trying to plot an escape route back to Beacon. Sleep is not currently in the realms of possibility. 

 

 

\---

 

Stiles convinced D to go into another carriage while he slept. At the time, he was quite keen, as it gave him an excuse to eat more brains. Eating the brains shows you their memories see, it’s why zombies go for the brains instead of something less vital, like a hand or a kidney. Because these particular brains were Stiles’ ex (late) boyfriend’s, it’s basically like a really easy way to get to know Stiles. And he doesn’t even have to groan his way through small talk! That was the plan, anyway.

Not happening again, Derek decides. As if watching Matt’s hands all over Stiles wasn’t bad enough, Stiles appears to have gone. D doesn’t understand, he thought they’d agreed Stiles was safe here? 

 

 

\---

 

It’s only when he’s weaponless and encircled by Bodies that Stiles thinks maybe D had a point. Not that it really matters anymore, because he is clearly about to be brain food, _hah!_ , and it’s not like there’s anyone here to save him.  

D, it turns out, _is_ here to save him. Sure, he critiques Stiles’ acting abilities as they Romero-walk it out of there, but he saves Stiles’ freaking life, so. 

Back in the train, D tries getting all pissy at him: pushes him up against the door, tugs at his collar, defines in more detail what he’d meant by “Safe here.” (Basically “not safe, out there” which, yeah, Stiles noticed.) Stiles gets all up in his face about food and water being  non-optional requirements for the living, and needing to return to Beacon, without once freaking out that his face is within biting distance to a zombie. He’s pretty proud of himself too. 

 

 

\---

 

Food! How did he forget? God, he’s so dumb, no wonder Stiles ran away. D shuffles through the dining carriage before finding a couple of bumper packets of Doritos and some burgers which look suspiciously fresh. Stiles gorges on the Doritos, and point blank refuses to eat burgers which still look brand new, as opposed to eight years old and badly stored. 

Stiles still really wants to return to the humans, which kind of hurts a little. Then again, D reasons, he hasn’t seen his dad or Scott in a few days, and he barely knows D yet. It’s understandable. He manages to persuade Stiles to wait a week before they set off, and to bring D with him as protection. Stiles agrees pretty much immediately, which gives D a week or so to win Stiles over. He may not remember being human all that well, but he’s relatively confident he can do it: they already hang out, they already _live together_ for God’s sake. Wooing Stiles can’t be that hard. 

 

 

\---

 

It’s Day Two of D’s enforced confinement, and it is _so unbelievably awkward_. Seriously, Stiles didn’t know life could _be_ this awkward. Or afterlife, for that matter. It’s mainly, he thinks, because D literally never talks. He just stares. Really intensely. 

Stiles has never handled silence that well. He wanders to a CD player tucked in the piles of junk D’s hoarded, sees that it appears to be working. He finds a Stevie Wonder CD, his mom’s favorite, and dances around the train to it. Halfway through ‘Cherie Amour _’_ , he realizes D might actually be smiling. It’s hard to tell, but it’s that or a snarl, and a smile seems slightly more likely. 

They dance around the room together, and it’s actually kind of really fun. While he’s tried to just chill out sometimes after the apocalypse started, but it’s here, with a zombie - with D - that Stiles feels more relaxed than he has in years. It’s kind of goodweird. 

D picks the next CD, and Stiles carefully doesn’t comment on the irony of his choice of Dead Men’s Bones. Or at least, not until he has to stop waltzing around in order to laugh hysterically through ‘My Body’s a Zombie For You’. 

They chat, though Stiles does most of the talking. He talks about anything and everything. About Scott, and his mom, and how he sometimes has cravings for curly fries just because he knows he’ll never get them again. 

They play cards, and D’s poker face is flawless, but he keeps letting Stiles win. 

They play music and dance a lot. They end up going through D’s whole CD collection. 

Stiles talks about Beacon, once. How it was supposed to represent hope, the shining light of survivors. How it feels more like they’re just a light in the basement someone accidentally left on, like they’re all just waiting for the bulb to blow, the light to flicker out. 

They play with the toy wolves. Stiles unearths a toy lizard from a luggage rack, and they reenact overcomplicated, Shakespearean plots. 

Stiles only asks what D was like as a human once. 

D knows by now that Stiles isn’t okay with him watching Stiles sleep, so he exercises through the nights. Stiles wakes up one night, sees D using the handrail to do sideways pull-ups, promptly declares it to be a dream, and falls back to sleep.  

They find a Camaro in perfect condition, and Stiles teaches D how to drive. They race and stall around the depot, respectively. 

D is a lot better at talking than he used to be. 

It’s a lot like a holiday, thinks Stiles, a holiday from the apocalypse. 

 

 

\---

 

D wonders if his inability to drive a car is going to put Stiles off. He also analyses and over-analyses Stiles’ “dream” comment every spare moment he gets. He’s not obsessed, per say, he just really wants to spend every moment of every day for the rest of his afterlife with Stiles. 

 

 

\---

 

A week and a half has passed by the time Stiles reminds D that they should head off. He feels all kinds of guilty: everyone must think he’s dead, and he’s just been hanging out with D all this time. 

D looks kind of upset, but he had to know this was coming, right? Stiles squeezes his shoulder. 

“You don’t have to come with me, y’know. Not if you don’t want to,” he says, and realizes that actually, no, _this_ is D looks like when he’s upset. 

Stiles doesn’t want to end this on a bad note, so he just packs up his stuff into the Camaro: the clothes he’s been borrowing off D, some water, a family pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, a stuffed wolf of D’s that he’s stealing to remind him that this all actually happened when he’s back in Beacon.  

When D grabs his leather jacket and slinks into the passenger seat, Stiles will 100% not admit to being relieved, but. But. 

When, exactly, he wonders, did D become a “him”, not an “it”? An important “him”, at that. 

 

 

\---

 

There’s such a big difference between Stiles leaving at some point in the future, and Stiles leaving right now. Still, he thinks, if Stiles _is_ returning to his compound, D’s going to do everything he can to make sure Stiles gets back in one piece. That’s about when they crash the Camaro. 

Naturally, they get surrounded by about ten zombies within five minutes. Stiles is good at fighting, but they’re outnumbered five to one. D’s blonde friend is leading the charge, and he tries to motion her to stop. They’re best friends, dammit, he should be able to convey this in a significant look (he saw plenty of Scott and Stiles’ friendship through Matt’s memories, and they do that _all the time_ ) but she’s very much ignoring his significant looks. 

“No, don’t,” he says, “Stiles is safe, is a friend.”

She looks like she can’t decide between being shocked and being annoyed. She settles for hungry, and lunges at Stiles.

Stiles whacks her with a piece of the Camaro he’d picked up after the crash, and D launches himself into the fray. For all that it’s five to one, D and Stiles have a certain desperation that hones their skills, and D thinks they might be winning.  

Blondie grabs Stiles, just as D dispatches the last of the other zombies. 

“Food!” she informs him, but D drags her off and throws her to the floor with the rest when she tries to take a bite. 

“You don’t do that again.” he tells her, going to hold Stiles’ hand as he confirms, “Stiles is _not_ food.”  

She gives him a Look, and he’s prepared to continue arguing it, but then things get _even worse_. The Boneys arrive. 

“Run!” he yells, pushing Stiles behind him, “Stiles, run!” 

“C’mon, c’mon, come _on,_ ” responds Stiles, grabbing his arm, pulling him along. 

D’s never been so scared. The Boneys can run, and they’ll get Stiles, and that will be it. He can’t remember what the afterlife was before Stiles any more, but he knows he doesn’t want to go back to it. He’s slowing Stiles down, can’t run nearly as fast, but Stiles won’t just leave him dammit, is half carrying him along as they run, and they’re going to get caught.

They duck into a warehouse, manage to lock the Boneys chasing them inside as they barricade the exit behind them. D grins, goes to tell Stiles how worried he was. Wants to revel in the fact that he _can_ worry. 

There are three more Boneys in front of them.

 

 

\---

 

Stiles thinks this is probably the definition of a rock and a hard place: Boneys ahead, Boneys behind. Still, if being dead is being like D, it might not be so bad, he thinks. Squeezes D’s hand, and shuts his eyes. 

There’s a really gross squelchy sound, but he still has all of his limbs, and D’s urging him forwards. He opens his eyes.  

The Boneys ahead have been crushed under a car, and the blonde zombie who was nearly preverbal and tried to _eat him_ not five minutes ago grins at him from the front seat of a blue jeep. 

“Coome… with… meee… iif…”

“If you want to live?” finishes Stiles, incredulous as she nods a little. 

D urges him forward again. 

“She tried to eat me! I’m not getting in there!” points out Stiles, totally validly, and barely squeaking.  

“She won’t again,” says D.

“She’s a friend,” says D.

“Please, Stiles,” says D.

Stiles gets in the damn jeep. 

 

 

\---

 

It’s quite refreshing, D finds, to actually exchange whole words with his best friend. They’re calling her ‘E’ for the time being, because she can’t remember her whole name either, though she’s pretty confident there was an ‘r’ in there somewhere. 

She waits until Stiles is asleep before asking his deal. Or, more accurately, “Whaat…. the….. act...u...aaal……. FUCK… is thiiis?” 

“I don’t know.” admits D, “but I think it may be Stiles. He’s the most… He’s the most _alive_ of anyone I’ve ever met. He… makes me feel alive as well. Again.” It’s hardly as eloquent as his inner monologue, but it's pretty good for a member of the undead, and it’s also less floral, so it’ll do. Besides, he’s not really willing to go into detail about his feelings. Or think about why Boneys were chasing both of them, when everyone knows Boneys only attack heartbeats. 

 

 

\---

 

E offers to get the Boneys off their track, and Stiles is slightly relieved when she’s gone. It’s not even vaguely to do with her being gorgeous and grinning with D from the passenger seat, and being the same species as D, _thank you_. It’s got way more to do with the first impression she left of wanting to eat him, actually. (Although–no. Not going there. Ignoring it until it goes away.)

The jeep runs out of fuel in the middle of a storm, because _of course_. They could make it to Beacon that night if they kept going, but Stiles is strangely reluctant. They stop for the night in the podunk Californian town they were driving through when the car broke down, instead.   

D forces the door of a two-storey, white-picket-fence type house. They sweep for zombies, and Stiles is delighted with the end result of canned food stocks _and_ no zombies. Apart from D, of course.   

They light candles because there’s no electricity, and it feels weirdly like mood lighting. It doesn’t really help that they’re both soaking, and D’s shirt clings to him like– No. Stiles shivers, and enjoys D struggle to tell him to take his clothes off without sounding creepy. 

“I plan to make use of the bed, while we have it,” says Stiles as he peels off layer after layer of wet clothes, “You can share the bedroom with me. If you want,” he says, and it isn’t an invitation. Or, it sort of is, but not the sexy kind of invitation, because that would be weird, right? They’re kind of bros, and anyway, Stiles doesn’t have nearly enough game to actually flirt. Or have D respond. Besides, this has to be a trick of the candlelight: D can’t blush. 

 

 

\---

 

That’s an invitation, right? That definitely sounds like an invitation. D is about ninety-five percent sure. 

Still, Stiles is never all coy and seductive like that. Not even with his childhood sweetheart, Matt. D would know, he’s eaten Matt’s brains. Oh god. _He’s eaten Matt’s brains_. He has to tell Stiles, he has to actually say it. It’s been talked around an awful lot, but he has to actually acknowledge it out loud before they do anything. He did kind of murder Stiles’ last boyfriend. And then eat him. 

He gets upstairs, and forgets entirely, because Stiles is curled up in boxers and a blanket and looks delicious. Not in an actual-eating-people way, which is all kinds of wonderful. Partly because D can actually differentiate types of delicious now, partly because he’s pretty sure he’s in love, and partly because _Stiles_. 

D doesn’t dare spoil the picture by getting on the bed, curling up on the floor next to it instead, and Stiles doesn’t say anything about it, so that was obviously the right move. He looks up at Stiles, who’s moved to face him. 

He wonders what’s the correct way to confess eternal love.

 

 

\---

 

D went straight to lie on the floor. Which is, it’s okay. It’s good. Because no invitations were made. Stiles turns to face him anyway, because he can’t not. D is, quite probably, the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. The most loyal, and most kind.  

“You can’t come with me to the compound,” says Stiles, before he can blurt out something like _I love you, and we’ll get through this and–_ whatever, he doesn’t say that. He says “You can’t come with me to the compound.”

He says “They’ll kill you if they see you.”

He says “It wouldn’t matter to them that you’re not– that you’re _You_. They’d just kill you.”

“I know” says D. 

“Please,” says Stiles, “Promise me. Promise me you’ll stay safe.” 

D doesn’t really say anything. 

“You aren’t like the others,” Stiles says, fierce in his belief, “You aren’t a monster like them. You _aren’t._ ”

And D says, “I killed Matt.”

 

 

\---

 

Stiles is gone in the morning. D wishes he was surprised. They didn’t really talk last night, not after D– not after. Stiles had turned away, said he was tired. 

What surprises him is why he didn’t notice Stiles leave: he was asleep. Specifically, he was dreaming. He can’t remember dreaming. He must have, once, but this was. This was the first time he could remember, and it was. It was glorious.

It was about Stiles, of course. It started like a memory of Matt’s which he’d eaten. Stiles, Scott and Matt sat in an abandoned lacrosse field, enjoying the summer sun. They talked of a world without violence death, and despair. Of an ideal. A world without the apocalypse.

“I’d like to be a nurse,” admitted Scott, “it’s, uh, it’s what my Mom was. Before. She was great at it. I’d have liked that, I think. Trying to help people.”

Stiles grinned at him, shoved at his shoulder, said “That’s so perfect for you, man. You’re great with people, and you always try to help.”  

“You think so?” asked Scott, with a bashful little grin.

“What does it matter?” cut in Matt, earning a filthy glare from Stiles, “What’s left to heal, at this point?”

It’s one of the reasons D remembers the memory so clearly, he thinks. When it’s his turn, Matt said soldier, and Stiles asked what happened to his dreams of being a photographer. They bickered, out of love, and it was the first moment, technically still in the middle of battle in a pharmacy near the compound, that D had thought maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance. 

“I’d want to end the apocalypse. Fix everyone. So, chemist maybe?” said Stiles, and D thinks, _You fixed me_.  

“That’s cheating!” exclaimed Scott, “You said in a world without the apocalypse!”

Stiles sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. What about you, D?” he asked, looking D right in the eyes.

“What,” breathed D. 

“Why ask a zombie?” asked Matt, “They’re all abominations, anyway.”  

“Ignore him,” advised Stiles, as Scott punched Matt’s arm, “What is it that you want to do most in the world, D? If you could do anything at all?”

Stiles looked genuinely curious, and D didn’t know how he didn’t know already.

“Be with you,” he said.

“Out of anything at all?” smiled Stiles, bemused.

“Be with you,” D repeated, “please.”

And then he woke up, and Stiles was gone.

 

 

\---

 

Stiles snuck in and out of Beacon hundreds of time while growing up, without once being caught. Of course, he normally had the reassurance of a weapon, and he normally went while it was light. 

He had to leave, he had to. He’d felt all… All… It was just. Ugh.

Anyway, he couldn’t let D see the route Matt and he had used to sneak in and out of the compound; he didn’t trust D not to follow him, and his Dad would definitely kill D if he ever saw him.

He skirts through an old veterinarian's, across the roof of a school, and down the fire escape to the hospital car park. He walks from there round to the main road and the front gate of the barricade, instead of sneaking through the vents in the long term care wing of the hospital, the way Matt and he used to. It’s actually safer to go the back way and avoid the main road, as he’s unarmed, but he can’t enter the compound like that or they’ll know there’s a gap in the defense, and he’ll never be able to leave again. It’s selfish, sure, but he couldn’t live in this cage if he could never stretch his wings a little. 

Isaac’s at the front gate, looking appropriately shocked to see Stiles stroll towards him. 

“Stiles? Is that you?” he asks, gun aimed in Stiles’ vague direction. 

“Sup, buddy,” greets Stiles, “How’s it hanging? You wanna maybe aim that elsewhere?” he asks, gesturing casually at the machine gun. 

“Oh,” says Isaac, flustered, “Protocol, y’know? You aren’t, um, _you know_ are you?”

Stiles gives him a Look. “No, Isaac, I’m not a ravening cannibalistic zombie.”  

“Oh,” Isaac says again, “Good.”

It is at this point that the ferocious leader of the remaining survivors comes to check on the guardhouse. 

“Hey Dad,” calls Stiles, “Can I come in, or what?”

 

 

\---

 

D trudges back towards his train car. It won’t be the same, he knows, now that Stiles isn’t in it. It won’t be as good. 

He doesn’t bother stopping, just because he can apparently dream now doesn’t mean he actually needs sleep, he’s pretty sure. And he’s hardly going to stop to eat. In fact, he may never eat brains again. If he hadn’t– What does it matter? He did. Stiles left. D can’t have nice things. He sort of wishes he’d brought the CD player with him so he could listen to depressing music as he walked. 

He’s not even a quarter of the way back when he meets E, who’s with a small group of zombies. They are, she informs him, all feeling alive. Also, it turns out they all had contact with D and Stiles before it happened. 

“More importantly,” snaps E, “We all have Boneys after us, D. After you, too!”

“Yeah,” says D, still relatively despondent, “The heartbeat thing, right?”

She looks pained that she actually has to explain it to him. “D. We’re waking up because of you and Stiles. They don’t want us to wake up. Ergo, you and Stiles have to go. _Die_. Properly, this time. You get it?”

Patronizing as it is, he gets it.  

“Thanks for the heads up about the heartbeats, by the way, jerk” is E’s response to D’s decision to break into Beacon and warn Stiles immediately.  

He grins at her, and spins on his heel to run back towards Beacon. Over his shoulder he calls, “Heads up! Dreaming comes next…”

“What? _What?!_ D, are you _serious?_ ” she yells, but he doesn’t turn back. “Fucker,” she mutters. 

 

 

\---

 

Scott is the worst friend. Absolute worst. Within minutes, he’d found Stiles’ toy wolf and he refused to give it back unless Stiles talked about his actual feelings. He wouldn’t even break into the ration supplies so they could do this with a bottle of Jack. So unfair. 

“So what I’m hearing,” grins Scott, “is you have a crush on a zombie. You have a zombie boyfriend! Hah! Your zombie boyfriend gave you a toy! That’s so adorable.”

Stiles sputters and gestures, but Scott knows to ignore the blatant distraction technique. 

“He’s _not_ my zombie boyfriend. That’s probably necrophilia, anyway.”  

“I think you mean ‘necromancy’,” leers Scott. 

“I wish,” sighs Stiles, “but I’m pretty sure it’s ‘necrophilia’ here.”

“So you _like_ like him?” smirks Scott.

It could be worse, Stiles supposes, he could be being interrogated still by Dad and Boyd, his dad’s second-in-command. That had been kind of horrifying in all the ways. He had gotten a brief hug, a quick scold, and then a grueling interview in the headquarters. His dad had commandeered an old police station when they set Beacon up, so it literally took place in an interrogation room. Stiles was beginning to see why people called his dad “the Sheriff” behind his back; he played the slightly unhinged and very suspicious small town Sheriff type extremely well. Even to his own son.

“You could always ask Lydia out again,” suggested Scott, interrupting his admittedly gloomy train of thought, “if you need something to distract you from your zombie bf, I mean.”

“You mean if I need a crushing rejection to distract me,” snarks Stiles automatically. He thinks about D waking up on the floor, all alone. 

“Hey, can you give Puppy back? I’m feeling kinda exhausted, gonna hit the hay...”

 

 

\---

 

Possibly D doesn’t _entirely_ regret eating Matt’s brains now, if only because he knows how to break into Beacon compound due to Matt’s memories. It’s actually pretty useful, as he obviously can’t just walk in the front gate. Not without getting shot, anyway. Of course Stiles was the one to find a way out of Beacon, of course he couldn’t just sit still in a prison cell. It almost scared D how much this sort of thing made him just love Stiles more. It _definitely_ scared him how much sappier his internal monologue was getting. 

He lurched through the vet’s, and across the school. He stumbled down the fire escape, ducked into the hospital from the adjoining car park, and found the loose vents Stiles had covered with privacy screens in the long term care ward. Before long he’s through. He is actually inside Beacon. Now what?

Sliding on the huge aviators E had lent him, and popping the collar of his leather jacket, he manages to hide most of his deathly pale skin. Hopefully his stubble helps disguise his post-mortem pallor to a more realistic human skin tone. Offset the blue tinge of death, somehow? He can hide his shuffling gait quite well, turning it to the slow, casual saunter which Stiles had called his “badass cool guy walk”, but sticking to the shadows and lurking in the corner of people’s vision seems safest. 

It’s only once he reaches the mansion that was gratuitously located at the centre of Beacon compound that D realizes he isn’t sure where Stiles actually is. He might have changed bedrooms since Matt was last there, he might be out and about in the compound. Anyway, how on earth was D going to get inside? Climb up through a second story window? No way is D agile enough for that. He stands there instead, looking up at the room he thinks might still be Stiles’, trying not to feel to pathetic. 

The door to the balcony from probably-Stiles’-room cracks open. What light from yonder window breaks, thinks D, followed quickly by, what the _fuck_? Before he can dwell on his internal monologue, Stiles walks onto the balcony, and D wished he still breathed, just so his breath could catch at the sight. 

Stiles sits on the edge of the balcony, and hugs the toy wolf D had carefully pretended not to notice him steal. D can’t really help the way he automatically orients himself to be directly under where Stiles perches at the balcony ledge. He watches, entranced, as Stiles sighs at the moon. 

“Oh D,” breathes Stiles. 

“Yes?” calls D.

 

 

\---

 

“Holy shit, holy _shit!_ Oh my _goddd!_ ” squawks Stiles. He manages to catch himself split seconds before he topples over his balcony, because holy shit. D is here. In Beacon. D is _here in Beacon_. _D_. This is such a terrible idea, thinks Stiles. 

“This is such a terrible idea,” says Stiles, “What are you thinking? Do you _want_ to die?”, ignoring D’’s huff of “Already dead, Stiles” to remind him that, “My dad will take great pleasure in killing you horribly. Killing you completely to death. Anyone here will; you’re not safe!”

“I had to see you,” explains D, and fine, yeah, Stiles’ heart grows three sizes, or whatever.

“You can’t just– Ugh. Stay there, I’m coming to get you, I’ll just–”

“What the _fuck?!_ ” screeches Scott, from behind him, and Stiles nearly falls off the balcony again. “Is that a freaking zombie?” 

“It’s cool, he’s cool,” assures Stiles, “Promise.”

“Dude!” says Scott, shrilly, “You can’t just bring your zombie boyfriend home with you! He’s a freaking _zombie_!” 

“Okay,” says Stiles, sounding really put-upon, “he’s not actually my boyfriend.”  

Scott stops panicking to scowl adorably at Stiles, “Really? Right now, _that’s_ what you wanna talk about? _Priorities,_ man.”

“Well it’s just kind of awkward, and I don’t really appr–”

“Stiles?” calls D plaintively from below the balcony, “Are still coming for me?”

Stiles’ response is drowned out by Scott’s obnoxious and totally evil snickering. It’s official - Stiles needs to get a new best friend. 

 

 

\---

 

D knows all about Scott; Stiles rhapsodized about his cuddly marshmallow of a best bro on the train. What he distinctly never mentioned was Scott’s overprotective, papa wolf streak. They’re halfway through a truly terrifying interrogation, and D has the distinct feeling that he’s answering literally every question incorrectly. 

D admits, once again, to not actually knowing the details of the human to zombie change, and watches as Scott’s face gets exponentially judgier.  

“Do you actually know anything about zombies?” asks Scott exasperatedly.

“You– I– There– Stiles?” D pleads futilely. 

Stiles grins from where he lounges at the head of his bed, because the ratfink bastard is clearly enjoying this. 

“Do you know why the bite sometimes kills and sometimes takes?” asks Scott, and D is getting really sick of having to admit he’s not very well informed and about his own species. It’s embarrassing. He’s torn between wishing the ground would swallow him whole and making a break for the darkest shadow in the room that he could viably hide in. 

“Amusing as this is,” smirks Stiles, that asshole, “I doubt it’s why D braved almost-certain-second-death to get here.”

“Yes, no, exactly,” grasps D frantically, relieved as Scott sighs dramatically and puts away the notebook he’d been recording D’s non-answers in. 

“So,” says Scott, clearly still unimpressed, “Why _are_ you here?”

D turns straight to Stiles, “I needed to see you,” he says, and breaks off annoyed as Scott laughs so hard he rolls off the bed. Stiles blushes. 

“I mean, um, I mean I have to tell you something,” D corrects, and tries not to be too thrilled that Stiles looks maybe a little disappointed, “I had a dream about you.”

Scott chokes on _air_. Stiles blush returns at full force. 

“That’s, um. I. Thanks? That’s…” squeaks Stiles, unable to look anywhere in D’s general vicinity.  

“I mean, uh,” D stumbles, realizing that he’s actually kind of  _relieved_ he can’t remember his previous life if it ever got anywhere near this awkward. He decides to continue over the sounds of Scott frantically trying not to have hysterics, “I mean _I dreamed_ , Stiles. I had a dream. I can, I can sleep now. I can _dream_. Because of you. “

Stiles has evidently caught on to the point D had been trying to make, because he looks all warm and proud and much less like he wants to die of embarrassment.  

“That’s awesome, dude. That’s amazing, seriously, that’s so amazing,” he smiles, moving to sit at the foot of the bed next to him. D is struck with the last time they were in a bedroom together, and realizes he can’t bear to lose Stiles like that again. There’s no point keeping anything from him, not anymore. Not even to protect him. 

“The Boneys don’t like it. I’m dreaming and feeling and talking, and it’s all because of you. The others are starting to do the same, we even have heartbeats now, and the Boneys really hate it. They’re coming here, to kill you, us, for it.”

Stiles looks appropriately concerned, before he scrunches his face up improbably.

“Wait, what do you mean,” and he looks genuinely confused, “Because of _me_? What’s it got to do with me?” 

“Oh my god, you’re actually an idiot,” moans Scott from the floor. Stiles aims a kick in his general direction, but continues to stare at D, bemused. 

“I’m in love with you.” D explains. 

 

 

\---

 

There’s a moment where Stiles thinks maybe the air has genuinely been sucked out of the room. He’s in a vacuum, just D and him, nothing else, not even _air_.  

“Duh,” interjects Scott, super unhelpfully, and Stiles can suddenly breathe again. 

“They’re coming, Stiles, all the Boneys in the goddamned country. You have to prepare Beacon for an attack,” says D, all calm and focused like the freaking declaration of _love so strong it brought him back from the dead_ is no biggie. 

“Uh,” counters Stiles, eloquently.

“We’ll hold them off as best we can,” D reassures him, “E, and the others who are turning. But I’d rather stay and protect you myself,” he admits, looking as bashful as he can.

“I don’t know, you look distinctly dead, even with the sunglasses,” Scott points out, “If anyone notices they’ll shoot you. In the head.”

“Possibly,” D pauses, considering, “possibly we need to tell them the zombies are waking up.”

“Um,” tries Stiles.

“Yeah, I guess,” says Scott, looking put out at having to agree with D, “Otherwise they’ll just shoot our allies. Stiles could tell his dad? The Sheriff’s a hardcase, but Stiles is family, so he might listen?” 

“It’s worth a shot, right?” frowns D.

“Probably. Dunno. Stiles, what do you think?” and then they’re both looking at Stiles.

“You _love me?!_ ” he manages to accuse, which wow his voice never even went that high during puberty. They frown silently at him, seemingly uncomprehending, which is supremely unfair. Stiles mentally runs through the conversation so far.

“It’s a terrible idea,” he says, now he’s more aware of what they were actually discussing, “but it’s definitely worth a try. We can’t let anyone work out that D’s sort of a zombie, though. We’ll need a disguise,” Stiles declares, ignoring Scott’s are-you-delusional look, as  he mouths “Sort of?” in Stiles’ direction. 

D keeps looking at him all relieved like (and maybe also fondly?) when it becomes clear that Stiles isn’t going to just chuck him straight out of Beacon. Of course, that changes the second Stiles comes up with a good plan. 

“No. Stiles, no. _No_.” 

“D, come on,” pleads Stiles, “I’m not saying anything serious, just some foundation, some bronzer, maybe a little blusher, probably no lipstick…” 

“Stiles,” begs D, sounding more than a little frantic.

“Where did you get all this?” asks Scott, “‘Cause it’s not like you went to ask Lydia or anything, you just had a bag already in your bathroom…”

“C’mon D, promise I’ll make you look good,” Stiles coaxes, before responding to Scott, “You know Phoenix and the ladies, right? We hang out sometimes.”

 

 

\---

 

It’s even worse than D imagined. It’s a kind of torture, having Stiles’ hands all over him. Those long, frenetic fingers slowing, for once, to sweep down D’s cheekbones. His thumb rubbing gentle circles of foundation into D’s cheek. His hand is practically cradling D’s face as he holds him still, and D has to resist the urge to lean into it. It makes D feel warm, for once. He feels like blood is pumping through his veins again, and with the make up Stiles has applied, he looks like it too. 

He pops his collar again and puts his aviators back on, ignoring Stiles’ snort of laughter, and Scott’s bitten off “He looks douchier than Jac–”. Pretends not to notice the atmosphere in the room get a little darker. 

Flashing a grin at Stiles instead, he crooks an arm, and asks, “Shall we?” The smile that Stiles tries unsuccessfully to tamp down is worth Scott’s pained groan.  

They make their way to the police station, and D thinks they might actually make it without being stopped, but there’s someone at the police station lobby. He glances up from his tablet as they arrive, unimpressed.

“You can’t be here, Stiles.” he says, sharply, “I’m not letting you through.”

“Oh, Danny, come on,” whines Stiles, frustrated, “We need to see my dad. It’s a matter of life and death! Like, the life or death of literally every single person in the freaking compound. You _need_ to let us through.”

Danny looks even more unimpressed somehow. “Stiles, even if I were to abandon my duty, and allow you to barge in on a confidential meeting, I would hardly let Scott accompany you, let alone the other guy,” Danny pauses, unimpressed expression giving way to wary and suspicious, “Wait, who is the other guy? I haven’t seen you before, I’d remember, how have I never seen you before? Who is this?” 

Stiles leaps in, before Danny can outright accuse him of the only obvious solution - D being from outside the compound - saying “This is, um, Miguel. You know Miguel.” 

D barely manages to restrain a wince.

“Miguel?” asks Danny flatly, face reverting straight back to extremely unimpressed. 

“Yeah, Miguel,” Scott attempts to reinforce Stiles’ story, “my cousin. You remember my cousin Miguel?” he asks, before exchanging what is clearly a conspiratorial glance with Stiles. D is seconds away from facepalming, at this point, though he thinks Danny might just join him.

Danny considers a moment, before smirking slightly and asking why he’s never seen ‘Miguel’ around the compound, clearly humoring them; D thinks desk duty is probably really fucking boring if he wants to listen to this clearly bullshit backstory. He also suspects that humoring them like this is why Scott and Stiles seem to think they can get away with shit like this. They’re so involved in their telenovella plotine of an alibi, that they don’t even notice the Sheriff and his top officers enter the lobby. D nudges Stiles and elbows Scott, but neither is as effective as the Sheriff’s annoyed bark of “ _Stiles_! What are you doing here?”  

Stiles flinches, and the Sheriff grabs his collar and yanks him sharply outside.

“Wow, Dad. Good to see you too,” Stiles bites out acerbically, and D abruptly realizes that their plan is utterly doomed. The plan relied on Stiles and his dad having a functional relationship, on him accepting what Stiles was saying despite how outlandish it may seem at first. Frankly, from the looks he’s directing all of them, it looks like he probably trusts Scott more than his own son.  

They are, D thinks succinctly, _so_ screwed.

 

 

\---

 

Stiles feels frantic, he’s tried to explain but his dad keeps talking over him about incoming waves of zombies and just won’t _listen_.

“Dad, please. Please! They’re on our side, the Bodies, they _are_ ,” he tries, and his dad finally stops barking over him to give him a horrible look. It’s a look that says ‘I wish it had been you, not her’. It’s a look Stiles has put up with repeatedly since the world ended, all those years ago. 

“They’re waking up, Dad,” he tries softly, “They’re coming back to life. I swear it.”

His father laughs in his face. “They’re coming back to life? Do you even hear yourself? Don’t be an idiot, son. They don’t do that. They don’t _do_ that. They’re abominations, plain and simple,” he snaps, and Stiles can see D flinch at every word. 

“No, Dad. They’re not, they really aren’t. The Skeletons, yeah, it’s too late for them, but the Bodies? They’re coming back.”  he insists. 

He’s honestly never seen his dad look so angry, so broken. Not since–

“They _don’t come back!_ I know you lost Matt, and I’m sorry, he was a good soldier. But he’s _gone_. You see him? You do everyone a goddamned favor and you put a bullet through his eyes, because it _isn’t him anymore_. It’s the thing that killed him.”

“Dad, _please_.”  

“You kill him like I had to kill her. You save him like I saved her. No more talk of this coming back to life nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense, it _isn’t_ ,” he states, but he feels defeated. His dad doesn’t look angry anymore, just exhausted. Besides he’s not going to listen, he doesn’t want to hear it. For the first time, Stiles realizes his dad can’t accept a cure, doesn’t want there to be a cure. If there’s a cure, she could have been saved, and if she could have been saved then his dad murdered her. 

“It’s not nonsense” confirms D, voice steady, and Stiles freezes, looks on in horror as his dad focuses all his attention on D. 

“And how would you– I don’t know you,” he states, tone brooking no room for argument, as he peers at  D’s eyes. His eyes are the only thing they couldn’t change with the make up, too pale to be anything but dead.

“A zombie?” his father asks, then roars “You brought a zombie into the compound? What’s wrong with you? Are you trying to kill us all?” He cocks a gun at D, and Stiles moves without thinking, throwing himself between D and the gun.

“Dad, please no. _Dad_.” he’s begging, but he can tell it won’t work.

“You compromised the safety of the compound,” his father snaps, “What were you _thinking_?” His eyes are red-rimmed, like he might cry, but he hasn’t cried in eight years, and Stiles abruptly hates himself a little more.

“It’s true,” pleads Stiles, “They’re coming back. D was talking, you heard him talk, you know zombies can’t talk normally.”

“You killed her,” says the Sheriff, eyes blank, ignoring him, “and you’re killing me. Move, or I’ll be forced to shoot you as well, for the good of Beacon.” 

“Dad, _no_ ,” he begs, and then “D, stop it, I’m not leaving you,” when D tries to push him out of the line of fire.  

There is the distinctive sound of the safety being flicked off, and then Scott says, “Really sorry, Mr. S,” as he presses the barrel of a handgun to the Sheriff’s nape. There’s a brief pause as they all remember Scott was actually with them. “Fly, you fools,” Scott grins at Stiles and D, and they stumble away, running into the shadows.

Stiles catches a a final snippet of conversation on the wind, and tries not to laugh through his tears.  

“I could have you court-martialled,” his dad says, but he sounds so amazingly, overwhelmingly relieved and a bit like he's crying. 

“Um, please don’t, Mr. S,” replies Scott, sounding distinctly anxious. 

They’ll be okay, thinks Stiles, and when we’ve travelled, and we’ve cured everyone, we’ll come back to them. D’s holding his hand again, and Stiles thinks, I’ll be okay too. We’ll be okay. 

It’s at this point that the emergency alarms go off. 

 

 

\---

 

“Aw shit,” mutters Stiles, and they’re off.

They race to the hospital, and D is shocked that no one seems to chase them. They make it to the vet’s, and skid to a halt in front of the huge crowd of zombies that wait outside,

“Oh my _god_ ,” squawks Stiles, and D is about to agree, when he sees E at the front of the crowd. 

“About time you two showed up,” she smirks, “How was meeting the in-laws?” 

They both shudder and she laughs in response.

“What is all this?” D asks, awestruck.

“I figured you might need a little help fighting the Boneys,” she explains, exaggeratedly innocent, “so I recruited.” 

“There’s got to be a couple hundred of them,” Stiles murmurs in an undertone to D. 

“Think it’ll be enough?” D mutters back.

“Depends on whether my guys help or hinder, doesn’t it?” Stiles points out, and honestly D doesn’t want to have to rely on that.  

“How long do we have?” D asks E, and clarifies at her questioning moue, “How long ‘til the Boneys arrive?”

Before E can respond, a voice from the back of the crowd yells and the message is passed up to them: “They’re here!” 

“Oh. Well, fuck.” says Stiles.

“Quite.” D responds. 

“What are you waiting for?” snaps E, “We’ll hold them off, run. _Run!_ ”

So they run.  

They get to the hospital car park, but Stilinski and his men are pouring out of the hospital, a guilty-looking Scott with them. They scramble back for the fire escape, but they’re tackled by a pair of Boneys. D fights his one off, and turns to find Stiles disarmed with a Boney about to bite down on his neck. D grabs a cinderblock off the ground and smashes the Boney straight off Stiles, before offering him a hand up. Stiles accepts, and freezes as he looks behind D. Isaac stands there machine gun aimed, but yet to shoot, hesitating. 

A Boney lands near them, and Isaac shoots that instead, tipping them a slight nod as Stiles and D race up the fire escape. 

 

 

\---

 

_Elsewhere in the battle_

  

Stilinski can’t really understand it. The Bodies do appear to be fighting the Skeletons. Doesn’t mean anything, he decides, it can’t. They’re still zombies. 

 

 

-

 

_Erica_ , she thinks, my name was Erica. She follows up with a spinning kick to the Boney in front of her that snaps its neck. 

 

 

-

 

Isaac’s out of ammo, and two more Boneys have him trapped against a black SUV. Scott slides over the hood shooting, and hands Isaac another clip of ammo. He smiles, warns Isaac to be more careful, and they launch themselves back into the fray.

 

 

-

 

Boyd’s leading the charge to the vet’s, but it’s total anarchy when they arrive. Bodies and Skeletons fight, as far as the eye can see, and for a moment he and his soldiers all hesitate.

“Who do we shoot?” asks Danny, a little further down the line.

A blonde Body slams a broken Skeleton down directly in front of him, and snaps, “Shoot that!” 

Boyd obliges. 

The girl spins back to him, grins, “I’m Erica, by the way.” 

Boyd looks at her: a zombie, her hair is frizzy and dirty, she’s covered in dried blood sprays, she’s wearing baggy grey sweatpants which drown her, and _she’s a zombie_. It bears repeating. She’s also grinning, sharp and stunning, and the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. He raises his gun, aims, shoots the Skeleton that was about to jump her, and says “Boyd. Pleasure to meet you.”

They fight side by side, and his men follow his lead. 

 

 

-

 

Lydia grabbed a machine gun the second the sirens went off. She’s heard the rumors, and if they’re true? Well, no one’s going to kill Jackson, not if he can come back. She’s not going to let that happen. 

  

 

 

\---

 

They’re trapped on the school roof. It’s Stiles and D, and about fifty Boneys. They can hear reinforcements pounding up the fire escape, and fighting from inside the school itself, but none of it is going to arrive in time. They’re encircled, and the Boneys are coming closer, and Stiles only has one bullet left. 

“Do you trust me?” asks D, looking into Stiles’ eyes. D’s own eyes look green, brighter than they ever have before.

_I love you_ , Stiles thinks. He nods.

D smiles, soft and crinkly. He takes the gun, fires at the skylight a few meters away. The Boneys rush forward, and D grabs Stiles. Together, unaware of what lies at the bottom of their five-storey drop, they jump through the skylight.  

They hit the pool hard, and if D weren’t there to break the fall, Stiles would have broken bones. He splashes to the surface, and he can’t hear any more gunfire. It’s over.

“It’s _over!_ ” he laughs, “D, it’s over!”

D doesn’t reply. Stiles spins through the water, almost doesn’t see him at first. D lies on the bottom of the pool, still and pale.  

“Oh god, D,” calls Stiles frantically, before diving down and hauling him to the surface. “D? D, wake up, wake _up!_ ” he begs, slapping at D’s face, trying to keep them both afloat. “Please, please, I love you, please, it’s over,” he keeps repeating, and he’s this close to giving up when D coughs out water. Blinks slowly at him. Smiles. 

“Your eyes are green,” whispers Stiles.

“You love me,” counters D, and then they’re kissing. 

They turn in the water, grin into each other’s mouths. It’s over and they made it and they love each other. Stiles thinks, _this_. Just this, forever. That’s all I want.   

Then his father shoots D, and Stiles screams. His blood is everywhere, and though Stiles blocks the next shot, D’s a sitting duck for anyone on the other side of the pool. 

“Oh god, oh god, no,” says Stiles, somewhat hysterically. 

“I love you,” reassures D, except right now that isn’t really all that reassuring. 

“Shoot him,” his father commands, “Boyd, shoot him!” 

Boyd stands on the opposite side of the pool to the Sheriff, D easily in range. Stiles can’t block both shots. 

“Please, Boyd, please don’t,” begs Stiles, but Boyd is his father’s right hand man for a reason, and he doesn’t dare let himself hope. 

Boyd doesn’t move. 

“Stiles, I’m bleeding,” says D, and it’s not exactly what Stiles would call a helpful interjection, it’s– It’s…

“You’re bleeding,” states Stiles, confirming it for himself more than anything. He ignores D’s confused face and quiet “Uh, yes?”, to call across to his dad.  

“He’s bleeding, Dad. Look. Look! He’s _bleeding_. The dead don’t bleed. They don’t.” 

For a moment his father looks hesitant, and Stiles appeals again, “He’s bleeding, he’s come back. He’s alive. Dad, _please_.” 

The gun is lowered, and Stiles wants to cry with relief. He drags them both to the edge of the pool, and Scott helps to haul them out of the water and bandage D’s bullet wound. Stiles races to his dad and hugs him for the first time in eight years. He grins as they apologize at exactly the same time.  

It really is going to be okay.

 

 

\---

 

_Epilogue_

 

Boyd let Erica pick the movie, so he probably shouldn’t be all that surprised she went for ‘28 Days Later’, but he can’t help the snort of laughter when he recognizes the opening scene.

“What can I say,” grins Erica, “I’m a zombie fan.” 

“Me too,” Boyd smiles, pulling her close, “Me too.”

 

 

-

 

Scott’s finally achieving his nursing potential. He’s been specializing with Dr. Deaton, another human, and Dr. Morell, an ex-zombie, in a recovery unit; they help zombies who have only just begun the process of recovery to adjust to the changes that come with being human again, and attempt to document and discover what they can about the change. 

He’s doing the rounds, when he realizes they have a new patient. She’s gorgeous, all dark hair, big eyes, and dimples. 

“Hey,” he says breathlessly. 

“Hi,” she dimples. Scott’s heart beats in double-time. 

“I’m Scott, I’ll be your nurse for the duration of your recovery,” he explains. 

“I’m, uh, not really too sure on who I am,” she admits with a shy smile, “though I think it began with an ‘A’?”

“Um, let’s see,” smiles Scott, “There’s Andrea, Arianna, Allison, Anna, Ariad–” 

“Allison!” she exclaims brightly, “Or it’s Allison now, at any rate. It’s a good name, a pretty name, don’t you think?” 

Scott smiles, big and sweet, as he earnestly admits, “ _Beautiful_ ”, and Allison blushes. 

 

 

-

 

It’s not easy going. Jackson doesn’t remember much of anything from before he died, and he was in the process of becoming a Boney when Lydia found him. No one really understands how he even came back, his skin was already starting to peel, but Lydia knows. He came back for her, and she’s not giving up on him. Not again. 

 

 

-

 

Isaac’s walking briskly through the park, trying to avoid the majority of the rain. He’s about to duck into a Starbucks to warm up, and he’s still impressed with how Starbucks up and running so quickly, when he sees a pretty girl struggling with her umbrella. 

“Here,” he intervenes, “Let me just, there you go,” as the umbrella snaps up. She smiles up at him, pushes her hair behind her ears. 

“Thanks,” she says, voice low and warm, “Fingers still a little stiff. Well,” she gives a nervous laugh, “Rigor mortis, what you gonna do?”

Isaac had thought she might have been a zombie, there’s this faint pallor that they never really seem to lose, but he doesn’t know the non-douchey way of saying, “ _Some of my best friends are un-undead_ ,” so he he settles for, “I was just about to grab a coffee. Do you want to join me?” instead. 

She grins, “Yeah, yes, sure,” and god, Isaac hasn’t done this in forever.  

“I’m Isaac.”

“I’m Cora, I think.”

 

 

- 

 

He’s at the graveyard, daffodils in one hand, wedding photo in the other. He has so much to atone for, but here is where he’ll start.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking, “Oh baby, I’m so sorry. For what I did to you, for what I did to our boy. I promised you I’d look out for him, and I–” he falters.  

Leaving the flowers and photo at his wife’s unmarked grave, John Stilinski thinks he can finally go by his first name without hearing her gasp out “ _Johnny!_ ” with her dying breath.

There’s still a lot he’s got to do to redeem himself in his own eyes, but he’ll start by cooking dinner tonight; he bought a curly fries cutter for an extortionate price today, and he’ll tease Stiles and D throughout. Tomorrow, he’ll discuss setting up a new world democracy with his generals. The war is over, he should let someone else lead the peace.  

He misses Claudia. Will always miss Claudia. But it’s well past time he comes to term with what happened. 

 

 

\---

 

They sit on the roof of the Stilinski mansion, looking out onto the barricades and the city beyond.  

“Do you ever wonder about who you were, you know, Before?” asks Stiles.

“Not really,” admits D, “I mean, this, here with you, this is all I want. Who I was Before doesn’t really matter. He didn’t have this.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Oh my god!” splutters Stiles through his laughter, “You are honestly cheesier than freakin’ Romeo!”

“Fuck off,” D grins.

They watch, curled into one another, as the barricade is finally dismantled. They watch as the world starts, all over again. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry about the Sheriff. Like, so sorry. He works at it, tries to be worthy of redemption, never mind that Stiles forgave him instantly. One of the greatest gifts D ever gave them was the opportunity to fix their relationship. The mansion is, quite frankly, far too big for two, and now the barricade's down it fast becomes an orphanage for those who lost their family, open to human and un-undead alike.
> 
> Stiles, D, and the Sheriff move in to the white picket fence house that Stiles and D had stopped in on the way back to Beacon.
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, I'm on tumblr as islandoforder, so feel free to come by and say hello!


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